


The Savior

by acoolgirl



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 23:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15617718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acoolgirl/pseuds/acoolgirl
Summary: She had always known she would marry a foreign prince, but never like this. Never him.Princess Margaret consents to her demise for her homeland to prosper. If only she knew what truly awaited her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU'VE BEEN KEEPING UP WITH THIS FIC ON ENKINDLED, SKIP TO CH. 5

The familiar scenery of the halls she’s roamed all her life blur meaninglessly as she walks as fast as she can.

As she hurries, she can’t help but draw parallels between herself and her kingdom like shadows at dusk.

She was 17. Merchantra, 117.

She had a penchant for music, as did her kingdom.

In the summer, the wheat plant, that took up most of their land, glowed the same golden her hair was.

Most flagrant, however, was the fact that both she and Merchantra were aged and crumbling on the inside, and Madge knew without a doubt that whatever conclusion was drawn in her Father’s study would hold the identical fate of both her person and her kingdom.

After all, what monarch resided over a rotted, invaded land? Her Father would try, she had no doubt, and she pushes away the terrifying thought of his head on a stake.

Her Father’s head was not yet on a stake, but she knew that as he discussed a treaty with their northern neighbors of Seamia, peace, as it was known, is.

“Princess Margaret,” the courtier outside the dining hall bowed low as she approached him. “Shall I announce your arrival?”

“If you would, sir,” Madge answers, trying to steal her taut nerves. While she had not been allowed to sit in during the negotiations, she was allowed to join the men during dinner. She tried to take it as a good sign, that things were progressing enough that their guests had agreed to stay the night.

The courtier nods and opens the door, and for a moment Madge is bathed in the warm glow from the candles that light the long tables. The loud chatter of the dining hall momentarily quiets.

“Princess Margaret joins you for dinner, my king and his most honored guests,” the courtier bows low. When he steps back out into the hall, Madge steps into the room and curtsies low.

“Come, Madge,” Father calls out to her. “And greet our neighbors.”

Madge keeps her eyes on her satin clad feet as she steps towards the table. The members of her court had risen when she had entered, but the Seamian entourage had simply stared at her before returning to their meals. The harsh vowels of their language raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

The spot to her Father’s right is empty; it nearly always is, and she’ll have to sit in the seat adjacent to the Queen’s empty seat, right across from the King of Seamia.

She’s never met, or even seen the king, but she has heard tales of their brutish northern neighbors; how most of them were nomads, with no place to really even call home, and that they dressed in the furs of animals they killed with their bare hands, drinking the slain beast’s blood like rum.

Madge stops right before her chair and curtsies again.

“It is truly an honor to meet you,” Madge speaks in a steady voice as she rises. “I hope Merchantra has been pleasing to you, thus far.”

She finally raises her eyes, and nearly steps back in shock.

Staring back at her is undoubtedly the most handsome man she has seen. Ever. He's not dressed in furs at the moment, though his black shirt does have a vest made of criss-crossed leather, but his attire is hardly what she pays attention to. His hair seemed tousled by the wind, and his cheeks were high, jaw defined, and a long narrow nose sat in the middle of his nearly symmetrical face.

Most unnervingly, he stared back at her with such intensity that she felt as if he could read every thought housed in her mind. She was a veteran in enduring lust-filled and lingering glances from men of all kinds, but no one has ever watched her as the King of Seamia does now. What color were his eyes, she could not say, for the pigments in his irises shifted like kaleidoscopes in the low light. Blue? Green? Or something in between?

The man next to the king clears his throat and nudges his arm, and the king springs up and holds out his hand to her. It was probably a Seamian gesture, for her Father would never greet a princess of another land like this. Heart no longer speeding from anxiety but out of a foreign nervousness, Madge unsurely places her hand in his.

His hand is rough, yet very warm, and as his fingers close around the top of her hand, she has to stop herself from shuddering from the feel of the callouses on the tips of fingers brushing against her skin. Why did a King have such worked hands? What was this warm feeling in her stomach?

“Princess,” is all he says, his eyes still not moving from hers. In just a single word, his heavy accent is profound.

“Now now!” Father shoots up from his chair and clasps his shoulder, all while he still held Madge’s hand. She wondered if he could feel her rapid pulse through her palm. “There’s no need for such formalities, please, let us sit and enjoy our meal.”

He releases her hand and Father comes forward to pull out her chair. She wishes he didn’t act this way in front of the men who would decide their nation’s fate, but just nods and slides in.

Instead of resuming his meal as Madge expected, the King of Seamia turns to the man who sits next to him and begins speaking very quickly in their native tongue. The already haggard-looking man seems to grow angry at what the young King spoke of, and immediately began to shoot back.

Madge’s grasp on Seamski was delicate, as she had only had two years of tutelage before her tutor had fled the continent for refuge from the perpetual war, but she knew enough to know that the King’s advisor spoke to him rather...crassly, what with his constant use of the informal ‘you’, and the constant mention of the male genitalia. Beyond that, Madge was quite unsure of what the two men discussed, and focused on her plate as she swore she heard the advisor say something along the lines of “donkey feces filled mind” before taking a large sip of his wine.

She glances up at her Father who seems just as perturbed, if not more, than her. It seems that he did not speak Seamski either. The young King’s voice suddenly softens, and he says something that makes his advisor seemingly deflate.

“King Undersee,” the advisor finally speaks up, in the same, but much lighter version of the accent the King spoke in. “The King of Seamia accepts all aspects of your treaty, under one condition.”

Madge can feel the King’s eyes on her again, but she tries to ignore its weight as she awaits her Father’s response.

“Well, let’s hear it,” Father says good-naturedly, gesturing for the man to continue.

The advisor’s eyes dart to the young King, before looking at Madge. “He wishes to marry your daughter.”

Madge can’t help it-she gasps, loudly. Intellectually, she had known she’d never marry for love, but to see the theory actualize-it feels like a punch to the ribs.

“She’s practically a girl, Haymitch!” Father loudly protests, and Madge wants to sigh. He had exposed her as his weakness when he had pulled out her chair, and now he was surprised they were capitalizing on it?

Madge imagines the young King slaughtering a white lamb, bringing up its broken neck to his mouth, lips stained red when he puts it back down. She then imagines Merchantra finally falling to foreign invaders, women and children pillaged while the men were killed, their large wheat fields set ablaze while her Father sat on his throne like a mockingbird whose wings have been clipped, unable to do a single thing as death marched towards the castle.

The voices of her court and the Seamian guests blend into meaningless noise as Madge comes to a decision that will determine her destiny and secure the sanctity of her kingdom.

“I will do it,” Madge answers directly to the King, who continues to watch her. Better to be a lamb that can walk then a mockingbird who cannot fly. “I will marry you, so long as the treaty is honored.”

The King looks at Haymitch, and Madge knows enough Seamski to know the older man is translating her sentence. She can’t help but grimace-she’ll have to marry the man who does not even speak her language.

“Madge,” Father whispers, face aghast. This is his Achilles heel, Madge thinks to herself. His inability to think rationally when his loved ones are involved. Her Mother was good proof of that.

“Tomorrow,” the young King-her husband-to-be speaks to her. His deep voice seems to have the quality of always creating reverberations inside her chest. “We leave.”

Madge gives her pale Father a reassuring smile, before nodding to her fiance.

 

* * *

 

Gale watches his bride-to-be pretend to be joyous at the aspect of wedding him. He cannot begrudge her for her dispassionate response, not when his own behavior had been much worse when his request to wed Katniss had been denied, but at the same time, he is irritated with her. She does not remember him, even though he recognized her the moment their eyes met.

By not realizing who he is, she does not realize he has saved not only her, but her kingdom, when it served no benefit to him and his people.

But perhaps, her amnesia is a blessing. She will be happier if she does not know this is a debt repaid.

At least he tells himself it's a debt being honored, as his eyes trace the downwards curve of her slim neck. It won’t do, being anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

Madge has a lover. He is mythical, and she has not seen him in 12 years, but she loves him nevertheless, and knows in her heart that he is the other half of her soul.

She had been five and accompanying her Father to their northernmost castle for its annual visit. Her governess had been a cranky woman who positively loathed Madge, so the moment the two of them were alone in the gardens, Madge made a break from the dastardly woman and ran into the woods. As expected, she became lost.

Instead of being overcome with fear, as most children would have reacted, she explored the mysterious woods with breathless wonderment. She was particularly enraptured by a flight of mockingbirds fluttering in the leafy canopy when she failed to see she had been walking right towards a steep incline, and had tumbled down rather ungracefully.

When she sat up, she came face to face with a pack of wild dogs. Hungry, thirsty, and now covered in scratches and bruises, Madge looked at the dog closest to her and began to cry. Not quiet, pitiful whimpers, but the screeching wails of a young, distressed child.

By a miracle of the Lord, her loud tantrum scared away the dogs, revealing what they had been so interested in. Or more accurately, who.

Dangling upside down from the tree, leg bound in a snare was a young boy. The moment their eyes met, the strangest burning sensation began to tingle in Madge’s chest, and she quickly stopped crying to gape at the strung up boy.

He said something to her, and Madge quickly decided he spoke the tongue of the fairies. It explained the tingling in her chest: he had used his magic on her.

“What?” child-Madge had squeaked, hoping the fairy-boy spoke Mercish. He did not, but he seemed to realize that they could not communicate verbally, and pulled out a short dagger from his belt, throwing it at her feet.

Madge stared at the knife for just a moment before she understood what he asked from her. Rushing over to the base of the snare, she set her small grubby hands to their quickest pace as she sawed through the rope. After what seemed like forever, the threads that bound the rope together snapped, and the fairy-boy fell to the ground. Madge had thought it was rather silly of him to not use his wings.

The fairy-boy had groaned, and slowly pushed himself to his hands and knees. Madge just stood and stared at him, not knowing what came next. When he finally stood up, Madge stepped forward hesitantly and held out his dagger back to him.

He had looked at his knife and then her again, and Madge realized she had never met someone that had eyes like his, only confirming yet again he was magic. After a dream-like moment, he shook his head and ran off in the opposite direction Madge had come from.

“Wait!” Madge had cried, but it was too late- he had disappeared like smoke into the sun.

The castle guards had eventually found her, but what no one found, not then nor now, was the dagger she kept.

When the maids tie the final lace of her wedding dress, Madge dismisses them and goes to her vanity, where she pulls out one of her jewelry boxes. Emptying the box, Madge pulls out its felt bottom, and the dagger from a dream stares back at her, proving that her fairy-boy had been real.

Madge pulls out the dagger and traces a finger over an engraving on its handle. For the life of her, she doesn’t know what the symbol signifies. Probably fairy.

Resting the cool metal against her cheek, Madge sighs and closes her eyes, recalling that the day in the woods for the millionth time. “Oh lover, where could you be?”

A knock on the door to her chambers shake her from her melancholic musings, and Madge quickly rushes to stow away the dagger in one of her packed bags. Breathless from how tight her corset was, Madge slowly goes over to her door.

Opening it reveals her very anguished Father.

“Oh, Father,” Madge sighs, opening her arms to him. He immediately pulls her into his embrace, resting his chin atop of her head.

“Your Mother was a commoner,” Father whispers. “I would be the worst of hypocrites if I did not let you marry who you loved.”

“I love you and I love Merchantra, and that’s enough for me,” Madge tells him both firmly and gently. “Besides, I will look good in furs, no?”

A brief smile flickers on his face before he grows somber again. “If he- if you are not happy, you just give the word, dear daughter, and treaties be damned, I’ll have you back.”

Madge tries to give him a reassuring smile, but the truth is, she’s terrified. However, while the King of Seamia has spoken only four words to her, and she has no idea what sort of person he is, he promised to protect Merchantra, and by extension, her Father, and for that alone, she, on some basic level, trusts him.

“If you’re sure then…” Father trails off, before straightening. “Come then, we have a wedding to attend.”

The young King had made it clear he wanted to depart to Seamia at daybreak, thus why Madge and her Father made their way to the Castle’s chapel while the birds still slept for what was probably the earliest wedding in Merchantra royal history. Madge didn’t really care how she was married to the young King, but her Father insisted that if he couldn’t be apart of the Seamian festivities, they could at least make their holy vows in Merchantra.

The Castle’s chapel is in a tower, and by the time they reach it, Madge is moments away from passing out. She can only pray Seamian women don’t wear their corsets so tightly.

After taking a moment to regain her bearings, Madge gives her Father a nod, and he opens the door to the chapel.

The only people present are the bishop, some nuns, the young King’s advisor, and of course, the young King.

Madge is surprised to see him in Mercish clothing, and can’t help but note once more just how handsome he was. She suppose in this regard she was blessed; she could have very well been married to a hideous brute twice her age.

Father walks her towards the young King, and once more, Madge’s hand is placed in his. She finds it hard to focus on the bishop’s word with the young King’s hand around hers, and his eyes once again never leaving hers, but she’s grounded a bit more to reality when it comes to the young King’s turn to speak his vows.

Pulling out a sheet of paper from his pocket with his free hand, the young King reads with an almost endearing scowl, “I...pra-mis to, uh, hon-ner end pre-tect you as a khus-band.”

Madge has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. The young King’s advisor doesn’t seem to care about how his reaction will be taken and chortles loudly. The young King glares at his advisor menacingly, but the older man just waves his hand as he laughs.

“He promised to honor and protect you as a husband,” Haymitch supplies helpfully. Looking slightly scandalized, the bishop nods. Now it’s Madge’s turn.

“I promise to honor and serve you as a wife,” Madge vows to the young King, who, for his part, looks pretty dignified as he stands there pretending to know what she just said. Haymitch translates her words, and the young King’s eyes soften.

“Then do you, Gale Hawthorne, King of Seamia, take Margaret Undersee, Princess of Merchantra, as your wife before God and all his witnesses?” the bishop asks solemnly.

Gale Hawthorne. Madge turns her husband's name in her head over and over again. It was strange how a name could be so... attractively masculine, just like its owner.

“I do,” Gale answers, after confirming quickly with Haymitch that that is indeed what he’s supposed to be.

The same answer is asked of Madge, and she gives the same answer. When the bishop proclaims that the bride may now be kissed, the young King-no, Gale, just holds up her hand to his mouth and presses a chaste kiss to the back of her hand. And just like that, she’s married. Rather anti-climactic, as weddings go, but she'll take it.

Haymitch lets her know that they’re set to depart in an hour’s half, and Madge and her Father leave the chapel together. After one more weepy hug, Father lets her go so that she can change and do some last minute checks on her luggage.

She’s expecting the usual maids to help her out of her dress, but is shocked to instead find Mother.

“Hello, love,” Mother greets in her airy voice. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to the wedding. I’ll never know who decided so many stairs was a good idea.”

“It’s fine,” Madge sighs, deciding she didn’t have the energy to ask how much her Mother knew about her abrupt wedding.

“Let me help you,” Mother says softly, coming over and beginning to undo the back of her dress.

“You don’t have to,” Madge protests, but Mother ignores her.

“I want to,” she says gently. Madge acquiesces, and for a few minutes, she just stands there as Mother helps her out of her heavy garment. As soon as her corset is loosened, Madge pulls off the wretched contraption and sinks into the nearest chair, uncaring she’s only in her drawers.

“Tell me something, love,” Mother asks her suddenly. “How did you feel when you first saw your husband?”

Madge frowns at her Mother, not understanding the source of this question. “Surprised, I suppose. I was expecting an older king.”

Mother frowns. “You felt nothing warm, nothing tingling, nothing like you’ve never felt like before?”

It takes genuine effort not to scoff. “Certainly not.”

Mother sighs and looks down at her hands sadly. “I wish you could marry for love,” Mother whispers. “Like how Maysilee and I did.”

“Aunt Maysilee married?” Madge asks, utterly bewildered. She had never heard that before.

“Oh yes,” Mother chuckles lightly, a nostalgic smile on her face. “The entire village opposed it-after all, it had been unheard of to marry a Seamian man. I suppose you’re carrying on her tradition.”

“Wait-Aunt Maysilee married a Seamian man?” Madge cries out in shock. “How did they even meet?”

“You know, she never did say,” Mother shakes her head as she laughed. “I knew, of course, she was seeing a man, but your Grandfather only found out when she told him she was with child and engaged. Her husband had been rather handsome, if not slightly smart-mouthed. A perfect match, really.”

It seems that there was a lot more to her late Aunt than what Madge knew. A lot more.

“Well if one Donner girl made one Seamian man love her, I’m sure I can manage to get one to tolerate me at the very least,” Madge tries to say jokingly, but Mother’s face suddenly grows serious.

“Madge, about your wedding night,” Mother begins, and Madge wants to both wince and straighten in her seat to absorb every word. Her education on the intimacies of marriage was purely anatomical and religious, which weren’t very helpful. “You must let your love transcend between you so that it may manifest physically.”

Insane, Madge concludes, is what all her headaches had made Mother.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mother,” Madge says flatly. “If you’ll excuse me, I should change into my traveling clothes now.”

Mother just smiles at her and steps forward so that she can kiss her cheek. “I’ll visit as soon as I can.”

Madge’s throat suddenly closes, and she has the strangest urge to hug her frail Mother as tightly as she can. “Yes. Yes, you-you do that, Mother.”

Because Madge truly does not know how long she will last in Seamia all alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Her final case is loaded into a cart, and it’s official, Madge’s entire life has been packed away, ready to be shipped off to a foreign kingdom.

She had had the option, of course, of bringing her ladies in waiting with her to her new court, but Madge had declined. Even if she held no fondness for any of her ladies, she did not want to subject them to the surely primitive lifestyle of Seamians.

As Madge nods to the servant who had carried down her bags, she observes the Seamian entourage as they load up.

Savages, Madge things to herself bitterly as she takes in their huge statures and thick fur coats and hats, I am to be the Queen of Savages.

And yet, despite her disdain, Madge could not say the Seamian people were ugly.

No, they all were shaded in a tone of olive that glowed even in the gray morning of November, and all held hair of thick black locks. The men had strong, angular faces, and even the few women that were present looked beautiful as their alluring light eyes oversaw their work.

In front of them, Madge felt washed-out and frail.

Suddenly, she feels a presence behind her that sends a shiver down her spine. Turning, she finds her lawfully-wedded husband.

“Good?” he asks, looking her up and down in a way that made her face warm.

“Yes,” Madge says back in Seamski, enjoying the way his eyes widen. With the gray sky behind him as a reference, she could finally tell what color his eyes were.

“You speak Seamski?” the young King asks both in shock and agitation.

“A little,” Madge answers truthfully. “It is easier to speak than to hear.”

The young King nods, looking thoughtful before asking, “You can ride loshad?”

At least she thinks he said ride. She had no idea what ‘loshad’ is, so she points to the closest horse to them. “Loshad?”

A small smile lifts up his lips and Madge realizes that’s the first time she’s seen the expression on him. He really was handsome. When he nods, she answers, “Yes.”

“Good,” he repeats in Mercish, and Madge can’t help but smile at his accent, it was strange how endearing she found it. Switching back to Seamski, he continues, “You need better clothes.”

“Excuse me?” Madge gasps, never more insulted in her life. She wore the finest dresses in Merchantra!

“Too tonkiy,” Gale sniffs, looking not at all apologetic. “You need mekh.”

She didn’t know what ‘tonkiy’ or ‘mekh’ was, but she was so aggravated she considered pushing his hulking body away from her. Was this a roundabout way of calling her ugly?

“He’s trying to tell you you’ll freeze,” a new voice speaks up. Looking to her side, she finds Haymitch already on a horse, looking rather cranky. “You need to put on some furs to protect you.”

“But I have no furs,” Madge frowns, fiddling with the button of her cloak self-consciously.

Her fingers are suddenly pushed away and the young King undoes the single button. Her cloak falls to the ground as a puddle around her, and although she’s wearing several layers, she feels so exposed she reflexively brings up her arms to cover her chest.

The young King ignores her scandalized reaction and whistles for his horse. The jet-black steed trots over, and he opens a satchel that hangs off the side of the large animal.

Pulling out an auburn fur coat, the young King holds it out to her.

Hesitantly, Madge pulls it on her and is immediately swathed in a cocoon of warmth. She’s beginning to see the Seamian affinity for such attire…

Once she’s buttoned it up, the young King hands her gloves as well, before reaching out and pulling on a snug cap on her head, tucking her traveling bun securely into it. Madge watches him with wide-eyes as he clasps the ear flaps closed beneath her chin. The morning sun highlighted his features, and his thick brows furrowed as he frowned in concentration. Morning glory indeed.

“There,” he declares proudly. “Now you have furs.”

Her mind can translate mekh into fur now, and she’s sure she’ll never forget the word as she reaches up to touch the back of her head, where her bun was tucked away, with her fur-lined gloves.

“Madge,” turning at her Father’s voice, she finds him crossing over to where she stands. He gives her a hug and kisses both her cheeks.

“Gale,” Father says to her watching husband upon his horse. Madge’s mouth falls open in shock at how directly Father addresses him. “Remember your vow.”

She knows the young King well enough to know that he has understood what her Father said.

“I will,” he says in Mercish. “Always.”

Father helps her onto a rather lazy-looking horse and for a moment they just look at each other.

“Well,” Madge says in false-brightness. “I’m sure we shall see each other soon.”

Father just nods and steps back. The young King shouts out something, and the Seamians begin their envoy back to their homeland.

Madge does not allow herself to look back at the Castle as she leaves it. She isn’t sure if she can deal with the site of her Father standing alone as he sent her off.

The initial pace is slow as they arrange themselves into a proper envoy, with the luggage carts in the middle, warriors on the side and back, the young King and Haymitch in the front, and Madge right behind them, flanked by two unknown Seamians.

It takes a great deal of energy not to cry as they go through the imperial city. Shops familiar pass by her, and her once-subjects all stare in awe as the foreigners cross their roads. Because that’s what she was now: a foreigner.

Once they’ve reached a stretch of flatland that only has farmlands as far as the eye can see does Madge finally allow herself to let slip a few tears, heartbreaking with sadness as her chest tightened with fear. No matter how many times she told herself the young King would not hurt her, his earlier gentleness a testament to that, she could not push away the despair of leaving everything intimate, only to march into a darker, crueler world, where she had no one who she could trust. A world where she loved no one, and no one loved her.

Suddenly, all the talking and laughing around her quiets, and she hastily pulls her horse to a stop when she realizes that the young King has stopped.

Too late does she realize that not only is he watching her, but he’s seen her tears. A new irrational fear of him punishing her for her outwardly negative reaction arises. Instead of pulling out a whip or something along those lines, however, he just says something to Haymitch, who nods.

“Princess,” Haymitch calls out to her. “You like singing, yes?”

Madge blinks her eyes rapidly, both to clear the tears and also because his question surprises her. “Y-yes, I do.”

“Pyet!” the young King suddenly shouts, and Madge watches as the caravan exchanges confused looks. Madge is still racking her mind for what the word might mean, when the man next to her gives the young King a very large grin, before opening his mouth and very loudly beginning to sing. After a few words, the rest of the caravan joins in, and Madge watches in stunned shock as the young King sets forward again, and everyone follows, all while singing the entire time.

It’s harder to understand Seamski when it’s sung than spoken, so she isn’t really sure what any of the lyrics are, but she’s soothed nevertheless by their deep, strong voices carrying tunes of the land she would now preside over. The songs reverberate inside of her, and she notes that their syllables don’t seem nearly as harsh to her when they’re sung, instead, they sound almost...powerful. Regal.

Perhaps they are not so savage after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Madge glances up at the darkening sky, and then at the Seamians around her. No one looked inclined to stopping soon, despite the quickly plummeting temperatures.

Shifting uncomfortably atop the horse, Madge tries to ignore the emptiness in her stomach and the soreness of her legs. They had stopped a few hours ago for the horses to drink water from a stream and eat a quick lunch of smoked meat the Seamians had brought with them, but it had been hours since that intermission, and Madge’s patience was waning, all while her anxiety was heightening.

And there wasn’t even anything to distract herself with. The two Seamians that flanked her did not speak a word of Mercish, and she didn’t have the energy for trying to stretch her Seamski skills. What’s more, after traveling across it horseback for hours, did Madge only know realize how...bland, Merchantra’s landscape was. While intellectually she understood that their expansive flat farmlands were what allowed for settlements to be built where finer skills and professions were crafted, to see it all laid out was rather monotonous.

“We stop here,” the young King suddenly calls out, and Madge wants to cry in relief.

Dismounting her horse who she’s named George, she pets his mane, her hand running over the many braids she had twisted in to help pass the hours.

“Thank you for being kind to me,” Madge tells George. He gives her token lazy-eye look before he’s pulled away to be tied down with the other horses.

Looking around the now-bustling Seamians, Madge sees why the young King chose this spot to set up camp, to the west was a small village in case there was a need for any supplies, and just ahead was a bend of a large stream, and behind it was the beginning of Merchantra’s forests. Just past the forest lay Seamia.

With a start, she realizes that they must be just miles away from her Father’s Whitby Castle!

 _“Why must I sleep on the freezing ground when I can in a castle?”_  Madge thinks to herself indignantly as she searches for Haymitch. She finds him by said stream, crouching down by it. Hurrying towards him, she pauses when she’s him splashing his face with its water. How primitive! Who knew what lay in those dark, cold waters?

“Sir,” Madge speaks up, trying to conceal her disgust with the older man. “The Whitby Castle must be just miles from here. Surely the King would rather stay there…?”

Haymitch looks at her amusedly. “That’s right,” he chuckles sardonically. “This will be your first night sleeping outdoors, won’t it?”

Madge doesn’t answer and looks stubbornly at the foliage across the water.

“I assure you the King will prefer this to Whitby,” Haymitch says as he stands, but Madge is not listening to him anymore. On the opposite bank of the stream imprinted into the mud are several horse hooved shapes, which all lead into the forest, where on its outskirts she can several bare bushes trampled on.

“Someone is in these woods,” Madge tells Haymitch with panic. “Look at this trail, and the plants they crushed to enter!”

“Are you forgetting your country has a population of its own?” Haymitch asks flatly. Madge tries very hard not to glare at him.

“The only village we’ve seen for miles is to the west. Why would they come all the way over here to enter the forest? And wouldn’t they have cleared out an actual trail by now?”

Haymitch frowns as he considers her words. “I will tell the King,” he says finally, and Madge sighs in relief. She couldn’t explain it, but as she stared into the dark forest, something...unpleasant stirred in her stomach.

They both walk back towards what was quickly becoming a camp, and true to his word, Haymitch goes over to the young King and speaks to him. Madge watches the two from a distance, but quickly looks away from the young King suddenly looks up at her sharply.

She’s just sat by a fireplace to warm up a little when from the corner of her eye, she sees the young King unsheath a huge sword from inside his hefty coat. Madge’s mouth falls open at how fluidly he holds it- as if he’s had the training of a knight.

"Voiny, sobirajtes!"  the young King calls out, and immediately everyone in the camp halts. “We dilzhny otsenit ugrozu.”

Perfect. Out of that entire sentence, she just understood, ‘we’.

Several men and women stand, all brandishing their own weapons, and Madge watches stupidly as they all march into the dark forest, following the young King without any hesitation.

Madge grabs the arm of the Seamian closest to her.

“The King goes?” Madge asks incredulously, wishing she knew the word for ‘fight’.

The Seamian she grabbed seems to be a young man near about her own age, the very one, she realizes, who had begun singing first. He looks at her confusedly.

“Go where?” he asks, clearly not understanding what she meant.

“The King,” Madge tries again frustratedly. Inspired, she mimics the motion of drawing a sword and slashes the imaginary blade through the air.

“Ah,” the young man says, seemingly amused. “Yes. The King always goes. He must.”

A King that functioned as a soldier? Just what sort of place was Seamia?

“Women too?” Madge asks, even more incredulously. It was absolutely unheard of in Merchantra for a woman to fight in any caliber.

The confusion returns to his face. “Of course.”

Madge realizes she’s still holding his arm and lets go of it. “Why not you?”

His face takes on an embarrassed expression. Wordlessly, he mimics a knife stabbing him in the stomach.  
  
Before Madge can question why he travels with such an injury, a loud scream is heard echoing from the forest.

Heart plummeting to her feet, Madge wonders wildly if she will be widowed on the very same day as her wedding.

Amidst her conversation and worry, Madge realizes that the remaining Seamians have taken on a very particular formation of a semicircle, complete with their own smaller weapons and shields.

 _“They’re preparing for an attack,”_  Madge thinks breathlessly.  _“Even though they’re not voiny.”_

Madge is nowhere near the state of mind where she can contemplate how she was able to figure out that voiny meant warriors.

Suddenly it’s all too much. The dark, the cold, the uncertainty, the flames that cackle loudly a few feet from her, the hunger, the memory of seeing the young King so carelessly stride into the forest, the fatigue.

_Am I going to die?_

Just then, the young King’s smiling face emerges from the forest. It takes Madge a moment to realize his sword is stained with blood.

The other voiny follow, and they all seem just as cheerful as they carry large crates.

“Food and wine!” one of them shouts, and the camp breaks into a cheer.

Madge wants to faint.

“I am not feeling well,” Madge says meekly in Mercish to the young man next to her, who is hollering rather loudly.

“What?” he asks, clearly not understanding her. Madge falls into his chest face first.

“Princess!” he calls out worriedly, adjusting her in his arms. She’s too dizzy to open her eyes, but too stubborn to give in completely to the darkness.

“What happened?!” she hears the young King shout angrily. She can hardly make out the man who holds her reply, but she is aware of when she’s moved into a new pair of arms. These arms are much larger and muscular, but that isn’t even what she focuses on; she’s been cocooned in the most wonderful smell of pine and something else she just can’t name, and she can no longer fight off the blackness, soothed by the perfume.

 

* * *

 

Madge wakes to shimmering red maroon.

Memories of earlier slam into her, and she sits up with a loud gasp.

“Shhh now,” a woman’s voice speaks up, hands gently pushing her shoulders down so that she’s reclined again.

Madge looks over and finds two women at her side. One sit rights by her, while the other stands further away, holding a plate.

“Tell the young King she is prosnulas,” the woman by her speaks. What is prosnulas, Madge wants to cry as the other woman hands the seated woman the plate.

“Eat,” the woman says kindly, not making Madge lie down again when she sits up. It seems to be a mix of rice, vegetables, and a dark, glazed meat. Her mouth begins to water immediately when its aroma hits her.

Digging into the dish, Madge resumes looking around as she ate. They seemed to be in a conical tent.  
  
It was much larger and...lavish, than she was expecting. It was made of colorful cloth that hung over her almost like bedazzled drapes, while the bottom was lined with material so thick and plush, she had to remind herself that it sat above ground. What was most fascinating was the huge metal...pipe? Scooting closer, Madge saw that thin, vertical lines were carved into the wide pipe, and in the middle, sat a fire!

Looking up, Madge realizes that not only is this pipe what is structurally holding up the tent, but it allows for the smoke from the fire to escape, all while its metal warms up and diffuses the heat into the tent.

“How do you carry?” Madge asks the woman sitting next to her, who is crushing something in a mortar with a pestle.

“It is yurta,” the woman tries to explain, and Madge tries not to sigh in aggravation. She’ll get her answer one day, she supposes.

It was a testament to Madge’s hunger that by the time the young King enters from a flap, she is nearly done eating.

“Good?” the young King asks in Mercish. Madge quickly swallows her food and nods. He seems...haggard.

“Yes,” Madge replies in Seamski, an echo of their conversation earlier that day. “Who was it?”

Thankfully, he understands her question. “Capitalites,” he responds in a hard voice.

Madge brings up a hand to rest over her rapidly beating heart. How had Capitalian invaders come so far up North? Were Mercish defenses really that weak?

“Good now,” the young King says in Mercish again and Madge just sighs and nods. Nothing was ‘good’.

The young King takes a seat on some large pillows from across her and Madge resumes eating and watches the woman at work for the lack of anything else to do.

It seems that she was already finished, because she puts a lid on the mortar and hands it to her.

“For pain,” she whispers, before bowing to the young King and leaving them alone.

Madge swallows tightly at the implication, and tries to keep her breathing steady. That’s right, it was her wedding night after all.

Madge looks down at the silken pillow-bed she sat on. She never once imagined she would lose her maidenhood in a tent. At least it held the same opulence as an indoor castle...

The young King stands up, and Madge’s eyes are drawn to the sword he pulls off. While he had cleaned off the blood that had stained it earlier, it was not wiped from her memory. Her husband could kill people.  _Had_  killed people.

Her trembling must be visible as she sets down her empty bowl and waits for him to approach her. Despite herself, Madge is flooded with the image of the young King snapping her neck single-handedly, watching with delight at how easily he had overcome her.

“I can’t do this!” Madge thinks desperately. He was so much larger than her, and he had all the training of a soldier- in no caliber would he be gentle with her.

A wave of dread washes over her. This is why he had so quickly chosen her to be his wife. He had seen the clear power imbalance in their statures, and lusted for how he could effortlessly dominate her physically.

Madge’s mind recalls whispers she had heard in her palace halls as she feels more than sees the young King approaching her. Women whispering about the brutality men exuded towards them, especially in bed. How they seemed to relish at their pain.

He kneels in front of her, and Madge bites her lip to keep from screaming.

_Please be gentle, please be gentle, please be gentle._

He reaches down and tugs off her traveling boot. Then the other. Setting them aside, he stands and walks over to a small chest. Opening it, he pulls out a quilt with an intricate geometrical design stitched onto it.

Wordlessly, he holds it out to her, and Madge hesitantly takes it. Finally looking up at him, she sees that he isn’t even looking at her.

“Goodnight,” is all he says before he returns to where he had been sitting, settling onto the pillows, his back to her.

Madge blinks once. Then twice.

Wasn’t he…?

Despite her earlier reaction, she stares at his back almost dejectedly. Why wasn’t he lying with her? Did he find her unattractive as a woman?

“I must pray,” she speaks up, because this silence is too stifling, and she can’t explain why, but she has the strangest urge to goad him into reacting, instead of just outright ignoring her.

He rolls over to look at her. “Then pray.”

“Do you not pray?” Madge asks stiffly, knowing she sounded every bit like a rigid nun. To her indignation, he smirks. In the lowlight of the covered fire, he should appear every bit as nefarious as she thought him to be just moments ago, but he doesn’t. He continues appearing outrageously handsome.

“I honor God by how I live,” he tells her, crossing his arms behind his head.

With a huff, Madge scoots off her bed and gets on her knees, this time her back to the young King.

Clasping her hands and closing her eyes, Madge decides to first pray for those who had been killed today, regardless of how righteously.

“Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine,” Madge begins, and although it is a sin, she pauses and glances behind her. The young King continues to watch her from where he lays, and Madge waits to see if he can finish the prayer.

Madge knew from her studies that Seamia followed the Orthodox Church, but it still grated her that he did not know such a basic prayer. She turns back around is about to continue praying when he speaks.

“Et lux perpetua luceat eis,” the young King finishes in a strong voice. His accent once again sets her heart aflutter and Madge finishes the rest of her prayers silently and quickly. She’s so eager to shut off her mind with sleep that she does not even read a single verse from her bible.

Once she’s settled on her bed again, and the only thing between them a crackling fire, all Madge can do is stare up the gleaming maroon.

Just who had she married?

 


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of howling winds is what wakes her.

It actually startles her awake. Tucked behind the thick walls of her childhood palace’s, she’s never been woken like this before, and it takes her a few moments to even her heart rate before she remembers where she is.

Glancing across the tent, she finds the spot where the young King had slept in the night before to be empty.

She can’t help but feel dissatisfied with the site...why had he married her if he couldn’t bear being alone with her? Uneasy, she reaches for her bible, hoping reading a page or two will calm her.

An image of both the young King and Haymitch’s uninterested faces when Father had insisted on a religious ceremony pauses her hand. The young King had proven to her last night that worshipping the Lord fell low on his list of priorities, so why would he consider a Church wedding as the official nuptial?

_ No, _ Madge realizes,  _ he was simply waiting for us to reach Seamski. _ And after they ate the heart of the bear or however these brutish people declared matrimony, he’d have his wicked ways with her.

She’s just sat up, feeling both relieved she wouldn’t have to deal with the physical tribulations of marriage just yet and irritated that she’d have to endure undoubtedly backward traditions come her arrival, when the young King re-enters the tent.

“Breakfast,” is how he decides to greet her, handing her a bowl of some sort of porridge.

Madge straightens immediately and takes the bowl with one hand while running her other hand through her messy hair. They may not be married yet, but she had no desire of appearing as a banshee before him!

“Eat bystro,” he tells her as he goes about stuffing various items away. “We leave soon.”

Figuring bystro meant quickly, Madge shovels the porridge into her mouth, and is immediately met with the heavenly combination of cardamom and honey. Eastern spices are certainly a delicacy in Merchantra, even for the royal family.

She doesn’t even realize she’s moaned with delight until the young King turns around to stare at her bewilderedly.

“It is good,” Madge squeaks, ducking her face into the bowl to hide her burning face.

“Good,” she hears the young King reply in Mercish uncertainly.

Excellent going, princess.

Eventually, she finishes her bowl without any further self-humiliation, but when she goes to stand, her legs nearly buckle under her from the sudden pain.

“What is it?” the young King asks her in panic, probably thinking she was going to faint again.

Not remembering the word, Madge just points to her legs. “From horse.”

The young King’s panic morphs into confusion. “What did your horse do to you?”

Of course. He was probably so accustomed to riding that he didn’t even realize that most people grew terribly sore after just a few hours of the activity.

But Madge doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to explain this all to him in Seamski, so she just sighs and shakes her head, gratefully reaching for the balm the woman had made for her the night before.

When the young King just continues to stand and stare at her, she raises an expectant eyebrow at him. When he doesn’t move, she sighs once more.

“I need to use...on my,” again, she points to her legs.

His face seems to darken before he ducks wordlessly out of the tent. Unsure of what to make of his reaction, Madge begins to peel off her layers one by one before her legs are bare under her skirts.

Fingering some of the balm, she reaches down and gingerly rubs the soothing medicine into the exhausted muscles of her inner thighs. As she works it into her skin, the most wonderful heat is generated, and if she wasn’t so sore, she would have been melting from the simple pleasure.

By the time she’s finished, she’s reclined once more, just relishing in the feeling of her aching muscles being soothed.

The flap of the tent is opened once more, and before Madge can collect herself, the two women from the night before enter.

They stare at her wide-eyed, and it takes Madge a moment to place why they seem so shocked.

She was laying on her back, bare legs spread slightly, hair wild.

They quickly look away, and go about packing whatever the young King hadn’t put away, leaving Madge to go up in flames of utter indignity.

They thought she and the young King had consummated a not-yet valid marriage, while Madge still sat as untouched as the Virgin Mary.

She considers trying to explain herself to the two women, but decides against it on the basis of her lack of energy. She just wants to reach Seamia and get this all over with.

 

* * *

 

The young King is upset with her, though she has no idea why.

It had all started back when they were still at camp, set to leave, and she had approached him for a favor.

“Where is man who help me yesterday?” Madge had asked him as he had loaded his things onto his patient horse. She had felt bad for fainting onto the poor man, and had wanted to apologize for putting him through such duress.

Instead of giving her a forward answer as she had expected, he had turned around slowly to stare at her through narrowed eyes.

“Why?” he asked. “Why were you with him?”

Madge had stared at him bewilderedly. “Because kind and good?”

“Ah,” was all he said as his jaw clenched. “Look for your kind, good man alone. I am zanyat.”

Since then he had not spoken to her, even though three days had passed. On top of that, her two riding companions had suddenly been switched to two elderly men who constantly gossiped to each other, uncaring that Madge sat right in between them, forcing her to hear their fragmented marital woes.

That wasn’t the only gossip she observed unwillingly. It was clear that the two women that had walked in on Madge in that slightly compromising situation had told the entire camp of their findings, leaving Madge to endure both questioning and knowing looks. She would not be surprised if every civilian in the camp was convinced that the young King had chosen Madge to be the companion of his bed only. By the way he was treating her, Madge was beginning to think similarly.

Besides the silent treatment from the young King, the never-ending sound treatment from her riding companions, and the whispers that followed her around the camp, the further they rode into the Seamia, the colder the weather got. The harsh temperatures, combined to Madge’s constant fatigue, and her inability to eat properly because of her growing anxieties led her to grow sicker and sicker each day, though she went through great pains to hide her amplifying weakness.

And so her daily routine became cemented: wake up early to an empty tent, eat whatever was brought to her, travel for several hours, eat lunch silently, travel more, eat dinner silently, sleep. She would not be shocked if she forgot how to speak by the time they reached whatever hut the young King lived in. The only up to the journey was observing how the landscape seemingly changed before her eyes. Though much of it was covered in snow, it was fascinating to observe how the once totally flat land began to slope upwards and downwards into lasting hills.

On the fourth night of Madge’s nomad journey, she and the young King sat alone in their tent with their dinner as usual, but today, a blizzard raged on outside, filling their silences with wailing winds. She had long since given up on trying to engage him in conversation, more than used to his sparse grunts.

Tonight though, even if she wanted to, she could not speak to him. The pain from her legs had traveled into every joint and cranny of her body, and even lifting her arm to bring her spoon to her mouth made her wince.

She missed her old life so bad, she wanted to sob.

“Your ruka,” the young King suddenly speaks up, startling Madge. She had nearly forgotten what his voice sounded like. “What is wrong?”

Madge looks at him warily. “What is ‘ruka’?”

With a deep frown, he points to his hand. Looking down to her own, Madge finds both of them trembling. Setting down her bowl, she finds not only are her hands shaking, but so are her arms and legs.

The young King stands and makes his way towards her, and Madge shuts her eyes tightly as she awaits his reaction. After his coldness towards her these past few days, she no longer had any reason to believe he would be compassionate towards her.

But then she feels the back of his hand laid softly against her brow, and opens her eyes to find the young King looking frantic.

“You are bol’na!” he cries, and before she can react, Madge is lifted so suddenly into the air she gasps, clutching his shirt in shock.

She can hardly contemplate how easily he had been able to lift her up to his chest when he lies her down and covers her with several blankets.

“I am fine-” Madge tries to protest, but the young King silences her with a pleading look.

He forces her to put back on her hat and scarf before he picks up her dinner bowl. It was only until he held her spoon to her mouth did she realize he meant to feed her.

“My King, this is too much,” Madge says as she tries to sit up totally, but he puts a hand on her shoulder, keeping her down.

“Eat,” he urges, pressing the spoon to her lips. With no other option, Madge opens her mouth and accepts the morsel.

She keeps her eyes trained forward the entire time he feeds her, hoping the low light covers the pink in her cheeks. When he feeds her from his own bowl, she tries to argue again, but he seems to not take no as an answer, and she’s forced to finish his dinner as well.

When he leaves to bring no doubt the two women that have been tending to her this entire trip, Madge can’t help but admit that she does feel a bit better with all the furs on her and the warm stew inside her.

But when the two women arrive with him and she is looked after by them, she begins to grow cross with her husband-to-be. Why couldn’t he be straightforward in his interactions with her? If he wanted to despise her, she had no way of stopping him, but it just wasn’t fair of him to swing between utter kindness and total apathy.

Before the women leave, they’ve made her drink a tea that makes her eyelids heavy and rub yet another balm into her neck.

When the two women are finally gone (Madge should really get their names…), the young King finally speaks up again.

“Good?” he asks in Mercish, still looking slightly distressed. Was he that convinced she wouldn’t survive the week-long trek?

Whatever it was in the tea, it has loosened her tongue as her eyes continue to droop.

“Decide,” Madge murmurs as she struggles to stay awake. “Who I am to you.”

She doesn’t know if what happens next is a dream or not, since her eyes have already closed, neck tingling pleasantly from the balm.

The young King tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at her cheek before pulling away slowly.

“It’s not who you are,” he whispers. “It’s who you aren’t.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Here it is, new fic, new chapter! Hope it lived up to expectations :)
> 
> ii. A HUGE thanks to my darling friend Ksu, who has helped me with this fic far more than she realizes. Any Russian speakers may have noticed a sudden spike in quality, it's all thanks to her! To my English speakers, all details to come with be thanks to her. 
> 
> iii. I'm actually going to Europe for 2 weeks this Friday, so unfortunately I won't be able to update anything. See you all in September!


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